


The True King Under the Mountain

by Stormbringer



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:50:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2316647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormbringer/pseuds/Stormbringer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smaug wakes from his treasure-slumber to speak with an unexpected "guest".</p>
            </blockquote>





	The True King Under the Mountain

Smaug stirred from his slumber; something had entered his lair. He shifted a back leg, then his tail, climbing into wakefulness. He did not hurry; he did not feel threatened by this intruder—why should he?—but his mind rankled that something, or someone, should dare come where no others would venture. 

He opened an eye to his treasure-hoard. He did not need to glance long before his steady gaze was met by a strange and surprising sight. Before him stood a shadowy form, slight and Elf-like, yet something completely other. It was, in truth, little more than a spirit taken on the barest hint of form, yet the dragon could sense a deep, ancient power within it. 

“Well,” Smaug rumbled. “I am host to a most ancient and unexpected guest.” 

The spirit’s Elven head tipped to the side, but it said nothing. Eyes like white-hot embers regarded the dragon with keen intent. Smaug roused himself—but not over much—lifting his head from its glimmering resting place to better regard his “guest”. 

“What does the great Shadow want of me?” he asked, placing just the barest of emphases on the word “great”. “Surely such a masterful wight has no need of treasure.” 

“Think you I have any desire for gold?” When the spirit spoke, the voice was like the courses of a river in winter, running deep and dark beneath the ice. “Such a great dragon must know my purpose to be much more.” The spirit returned the word “great” with the same emphasis. 

Smaug’s nostrils flared. “It is well enough. I would not part with a shard of it—even for you.” 

The spirit did not seem fazed. “I have come seeking your cunning, and your ancestral strength.” 

A laugh stirred the fire in the dragon’s chest. “Came you to beg my aide, Shadow?” 

The spirit bestirred itself, its dark aura drawing in the shadows of the hall. “Like most yet living in this Middle-Earth, you think me spent.” There was malice in the voice, but as it continued, the tone softened. “And yet I cannot lay blame for such thoughts. I marshal myself in the shadows, unremarked, unseen.” 

“And in what shadow do your marshal yourself?” The dragon exhaled a blast of furnace air, laying his head down upon its pillow of gems and jewels. 

“It would brook little to tell you,” the spirit replied. “You would not come.” 

“Indeed not.” 

“Just as well.” The shadowy Elven face had a hint of a smile. “You are not King Under the Mountain yet. Your hoard still lies in danger.” 

Smaug’s pupils contracted to thin slits. He lifted his head, tossing gold into the air with the force of the movement, and shifted his great bulk. The thought to strike—useless as such an action would be—crossed his thoughts. “Not King Under the Mountain? How not King Under the Mountain?” With a twist of his head, he encompassed the entire hall—his hall!—and all his treasure. 

The Elf-like spirit’s lips turned up; its eyes burned. “Your claim will always be contested, last of great fire-drakes.” 

Smaug bared all his dagger teeth in a snarl. Fire rose into his throat. “There is a name by which you are known: Deceiver.” 

“And you will know if I speak false or true.” The smile remained. 

Fire licked over the dragon’s tongue, but Smaug took a moment to consider. His mind turned to those dwarves who survived his attack on Erebor. He knew—and had always known—they might try to return, though he had every doubt they could pluck up the courage for it. 

His gaze fell upon his pride, his treasures, and he knew they would always come, those who would want to claim their share. The treasure-madness ran hot in the veins of Thror’s heir. 

“Oakenshield.” Smaug calmed his fire and lowered his head once more. “He will come.” 

“And others ever after,” the spirit agreed. 

Smaug turned his fiery eyes to the spirit. “What do you offer in exchange for my…aide?” 

“A world where you may hoard your treasure uncontested.” The spirit smiled again; the expression was sharp on the Elven features. “Acknowledgement of the true King Under the Mountain.” 

Smaug chuckled, stirring flame. His belly warmed against his bed of gold. “I shall consider your tempting offer,” he said, laying his head upon the hoard, never taking his eye off the spirit. 

“When the time comes, I shall send to you.” The spirit’s icy voice betrayed no disappointment, no triumph. Its shadowy form contracted, then expanded, becoming formless as night. It shot upwards into the air, vanishing amongst the darkness in the vaulted hall. 

Smaug settled to sleep again, sliding tail and claws through the gold and jewels. With the spirit gone, he considered the offer. It seemed fair, and who could yet say what he could add to his wealth? 

As he drifted into satisfied slumber, his thoughts turned to the thieves who would undoubtedly try to take what was rightfully his.


End file.
